Passion's Prey tss-3

by A. C. Arthur

  He walked over to the window, pushing back the curtains with shaky hands. Maybe he’d had one too many glasses of scotch. As he looked down onto the quiet street where he lived, his vision blurred only slightly. Breathing hard enough so that he fogged the window in front of him, Dorian tried to let the memories of tonight and the previous nights wash from his mind. He was trying so hard not to concentrate on work that he almost missed it.

  In a black SUV parked across the street from his building he’d seen a shadow of a person. Someone was inside, and they’d moved the moment he came to the window. On instinct—because no matter how sorry he was feeling for himself, he was still a cop—Dorian backed away from the window. He stood close to the wall, waited a beat, then leaned in slowly. Not so his body would show but so that he could still look out to see if the person in the vehicle would get out.

  It was well after three in the morning. If someone in his building were expecting company, wouldn’t that company have already gotten out of the car and come inside? A drizzle of rain had just begun to come down and Dorian had to shake his head to clear his own blurriness. But the shadow was still there, sitting way back in the front seat, as if the seat had been lowered all the way down. The head of the shadow moved and Dorian gasped.

  Yellow eyes.

  They stared back at him, right up to his window as if they knew he was watching.

  “Shit!” he cursed, falling back on his ass and rubbing his eyes. “Gotta stop drinking scotch.” He scrambled off the floor to the bathroom, where he proceeded to relieve himself of all the scotch he’d just consumed.

  * * *

  Bianca came to sit next to Darel on the couch in his apartment. Neither of them had wanted to go back to the town house in Georgetown. It had been a long night, one they’d been setting up for nearly a week, and as far as Darel could tell it had gone perfectly.

  Then she opened her mouth and began to talk. Nothing good ever came from Bianca talking. Darel wondered why he hadn’t subjected her to the same fate as Sabar.

  “I’m so glad that’s over,” she said, crossing her legs. The nightgown she wore had slits up both sides, easy access for anyone who wanted a taste.

  Darel had tasted so much in the last weeks, he wondered if he’d start to go into withdrawal at some point.

  “Now we can really take care of our business,” she continued. “We should move the headquarters in case someone still loyal to Sabar wants to try to go against us. And that chemist guy out there is the pits. We need top-notch employees.”

  Darel could ignore her for hours; he’d done it before. But tonight he wanted to get some sleep, so he figured the sooner he talked to her, sucked and fucked her, the sooner he could get on with it.

  “I know what I’m doing. It’s all going to be fine,” he told her.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you,” she said, leaning in closer to nibble on his ear. “I’m just throwing ideas out there, seeing what sticks.” With the last word she flattened her palm over his dick.

  She was so predictable.

  “Go ahead and take it,” he ordered her. “And don’t stop until I tell you to.”

  Bianca smiled, her tongue licking over her lips as she eased off the couch. She went to her knees, leaning between his legs.

  Darel lay his head back. He reached an arm over until he touched a remote control on the coffee table. Lifting it so he could see, he pushed the POWER button, then the red RECORD button. Putting the remote down, he closed his eyes and let Bianca do her thing. She’d be busy for about an hour, working him until he finally came. She loved when he came, or so she said. As for Darel, he loved the aftereffect. She’d fall asleep and he’d replay the tape he made of them. That was his real turn-on.

  As she unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his semi-erect dick, Darel thought over the events of the night.

  Bianca had been slowly poisoning Sabar with the same damiana he’d praised for making the savior drug a success. They’d thought it sort of poetic that his own creation would contribute to his demise. But they needed him out of the way while they worked the other details of the plan.

  Palermo Greer was a shifter whom both Bianca and Darel knew. His appearance in DC had seemed a little strange at first; then Darel figured it out. Bianca had summoned him to take out Sabar. If Darel hadn’t fucked her that day she’d snuck into his apartment, he would have probably been on their hit list as well. Funny how things worked out in the end. He’d immediately confronted Palermo about his suspicions, and the two had found common ground—neither of them truly trusted Bianca and both of them hated Sabar. So why not team up to get the job done?

  At this very moment Palermo was on a private jet headed for Albuquerque where he would deliver the weapons to their new headquarters, the one Bianca knew nothing about. Palermo was going to get things set up there while Darel continued to work the money end of the business. Now, Darel didn’t trust Palermo 100 percent, either; no one would ever get that type of trust from him. But the shifter had proved he had balls by getting into Slakeman’s good graces. That new connection was going to work out well for them.

  As for Pierson, that little weasel was also going to end up working for Darel. Slakeman and other greedy motherfuckers like him would all bow to Darel sooner or later.

  Bianca went deep, taking his full length in her mouth and humming just the way he taught her. Spirals of pleasure soared up his spine, and Darel let out a little gasp. He might not trust this bitch but she could certainly give good head. Absently he touched a hand to the back of her head, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked. “Do it again!” he yelled.

  She smiled, her lips still wrapped around his length, and ducked her head once more.

  This was where he wanted to be … for the moment. As for tomorrow, Darel would just have to see, but his future was already looking much brighter.

  Chapter 31

  One Week Later

  X and Caprise walked into mayhem. After deciding that their home would be X’s apartment and they would both visit Havenway daily to do their new jobs—Caprise as a guard in training and X as commanding officer and intel supervisor—they’d slipped into a comfortable routine.

  Going back to the FBI hadn’t been an option for X. Seeing the damage the Rogues could do on the streets in the last couple of months had proved to him that working from the FBI wasn’t going to stop this new war that was being waged. What they learned from Elder Alamar and Baxter proved that this battle was going to grow, and for them to stop it they’d need all hands on deck. As Rome and Nick’s firm provided the bulk of the finances to the Stateside Assembly so far, X figured his best contribution was to work full-time in developing new technology to help support their endeavors. And this way he could keep an eye on his mate, the one who was determined to become a guard even though she’d also accepted a part-time teaching position at the Dance Institute of Washington.

  They’d been home for about two hours when Kalina had called Caprise. Ary was officially in labor.

  So, packing an overnight bag, they’d headed back out to Havenway—and had just arrived to pure chaos.

  Shifters stood to the side as Nick gave orders. Rome had been just coming down the hallway as they entered. He looked to X and shared a knowing sigh. Both men moved to Nick, clapping hands on either of his shoulders.

  “Come on, let’s go get a drink,” Rome said.

  “No.” Nick shook his head. “I’m going back in there. I’ve got to be with her.”

  “Sure you do,” X said. “Let’s just get you calmed down a bit. We’ll let the women go make sure she’s comfortable and we’ll join them in a few.”

  Over his shoulder X nodded to Caprise, who smiled as she started down the hallway toward the medical center.

  “I don’t want a drink,” Nick continued to argue.

  But Baxter, the Overseer who saw and knew every damn thing, had already appeared with a tray. “Have a drink, Mr. Dominick. Dr. Papplin said a couple of hours at best. You don’t want to be w
orried out of your mind by then.”

  Nick, who knew just like the rest of them that ignoring Baxter’s request couldn’t end well, took the glass from the tray. He drank until it was empty.

  “Happy now?” he asked all that were looking at him.

  Rome shook his head. X chuckled.

  “You’re a smooth talker in the courtroom and a definite player when you were on the prowl for women, but now you seem to be losing your cool. Where is the Nick Delgado we used to know?” X asked.

  “Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Nick said snidely, turning so that they would be walking toward the medical center. “You have no idea how this feels. It’s not like anything I’ve ever expected.”

  “A lot of responsibility comes with having a child,” Rome told him.

  “That’s why we’ve got to get these Rogues in check, man. The world has to be safer for my daughter,” Nick said sincerely.

  “I hear that,” X told him. “And we’re going to get it together. We’re not going to let anything happen to her.”

  The three men walked into the medical center side by side, ready to face whatever happened next, just as they’d always done.

  * * *

  Two hours later Ary pushed one last time. With a scream that threatened to break the small windows in the room and any other glass item, Shya Delgado was born.

  Shya echoed her mother’s sentiments by letting out a huge wail of her own.

  Beside Ary, holding her hand and leaning forward to kiss her lips, was Nick. “She’s gorgeous,” he told his wife when Dr. Papplin held the baby up for them to see.

  Ary, who was drenched in sweat, lifted her head, breath still heaving, and cried, “Perfect. Look at her, Nick, she’s absolutely perfect.”

  “I’ll bring her right back,” Dr. Papplin said, taking the Delgado baby over to an incubator they had set up just in case they should need it. By this time they had four nursing assistants in the medical center. Gisela was their most experienced and she tended to Ary.

  Although this was not a human baby, Papplin still performed the Apgar testing. He watched her activity, posture, breathing, behavior, and color. All looked normal at the first minute of evaluation. As he waited for the next recording at five minutes Papplin touched along her spine. He counted her fingers and her toes and looked at her eyes once more. They were blue, which wasn’t terribly abnormal. Lots of babies were born with blue eyes that later changed to their permanent color. He aspirated her, checking her nasal cavity and her mouth for any blockages. She was breathing just fine and had stopped crying immediately. Now she lay quietly staring directly at Papplin even though he was sure he was nothing more than a blob to her. Except her glare looked way too clear.

  At the five-minute mark he recorded her results, pleased with the perfect score. He was about to take her over to her proud parents because he knew they were getting anxious and the last thing Papplin wanted was to endure Nick’s wrath. But something told him to take a blood sample—something like the fact that the Assembly had voted to store samples of every shifter’s DNA. He quickly found a needle, clamped on a vial, and pricked a tiny vein in Shya’s foot. He almost looked away since this was a normal task, but something kept his eyes riveted on that vial.

  “Is everything all right?” Nick asked from behind him.

  “Ah, yes. Yes,” Papplin said, sure his tired eyes were simply playing tricks on him.

  He finished, labeling the sample and setting it aside. Wrapping the gorgeous little girl in a pretty pink blanket already provided by her mother, he carried her over and placed her in Ary’s arms.

  “Hello, Shya,” Ary said.

  Nick leaned over both his lovely ladies, kissing his daughter on the forehead. “Hello, my precious little girl.”

  And as they cooed and ahhed over this joyous event, Dr. Papplin took the vial of blood and carried it back to his office.

  Epilogue

  Three Months Later

  The Grand Ballroom at the Willard InterContinental in Washington, DC, was the location for the kickoff to President Wilson Reed’s reelection campaign. As staunch supporters of the current president and his administration, Reynolds & Delgado had purchased a table of ten seats to the fund-raising event that started at seven thirty on a chilly winter evening.

  Priya Drake, columnist for The Washington Post, with her sights on becoming a White House correspondent in the very near future, covered the president’s first reelection fund-raiser with all the zeal of an ambitious reporter. She’d stuffed her press pass into the small beaded purse she carried, after showing it to be allowed entrance. In her palm was a small handheld recorder that she cupped expertly so when she was speaking into it—taking her notes for the column—it would appear she was only coughing or otherwise covering her mouth. Not everybody needed to know that whatever they said or did around her was subject to appearing in black-and-white print come tomorrow morning.

  She’d taken position just inside the entrance, standing near a pillar that gave her access to everyone as they walked in. This way she’d get first attempts at interviews with DC’s most powerful. And she was not disappointed as she stood back to watch the newest arrivals.

  At seven fifty-three in the evening, Roman Reynolds, dressed in a classic two-button Gianni Versace tuxedo, entered the large ballroom with its thick white pillars, golden accents, and crystal chandeliers. On his arm was his wife and former MPD detective, the lovely and never overstated Kalina Reynolds. Mrs. Reynolds wore what Priya was certain was Vera Wang. In Priya’s other life she had to have been a fashion designer, and her obsession had simply carried over. Even though she couldn’t afford half the items she gawked over, she knew them all name by expensively designed name. Kalina’s dress was a fabulous A-line V-neck in a very alluring teal color that accented the ex-cop’s gorgeously natural golden skin tone.

  The Reynoldses had been pictured before as they’d been out to dinner or at some other social event the millionaire lawyer was invited to. And Priya had to admit they made a stunning couple.

  Next—and Priya could have probably predicted this—came Dominick Delgado and his adorable wife, Aryiola. The rumor mill was still abuzz with news of Nick’s quickie marriage and the resulting baby girl that had been born just a few months ago. Although there had been no pictures of the baby yet, Mommy and Daddy were both looking their picture-perfect best tonight.

  Nick wore an appropriate modern-cut tuxedo, while his wife sported what Priya’s eagle eye nabbed as Donna Karan—a lovely tangerine dress with one capped sleeve and a crisscross pattern over her chest. Priya gave a mental thumbs-up to this obvious South American beauty for the dress but hated her for regaining that killer body so soon after having a baby.

  In the back of her mind Priya noted there had never been any photos of the pretty foreigner with a protruding belly, so the baby could always be a rumor. However, the larger-than-life diamond on her ring finger was obviously the real thing.

  Next up was a face she didn’t see in the tabloids often—only when he followed behind Reynolds and Delgado, which was most of the time. As Priya recalled, he was an FBI agent and looked terribly familiar. She would have sworn he was a professional wrestler if it hadn’t been for the company he kept. It didn’t matter who the designer of his tuxedo was, the slate-gray material fit him perfectly, adding an ideal touch to his military-like features of bald head, cold eyes, and stern jaw. His date, whom Priya could swear she’d seen someplace before as well, was likewise beautiful. Her hair was long, cascading over one shoulder in big bouncy curls. The dress was white and fit like a second skin—damnation to another gorgeous body. It hugged her generous breasts in a halter and displayed one outrageously long and equally toned leg through a split that soared upward to midthigh.

  This was a new couple, one that looked as abnormally gorgeous as the former two. Really, Priya wanted to visit whatever salon these people did. Her own medium build and mocha skin tone could use a professional makeover. Even though she thought she did a damn goo
d job of remaining stylish and sexy on her meager reporter’s budget. If the offer to move up in the world dropped in her lap, she’d scoop it up faster than a bird does bread crumbs. And she wouldn’t look back. Priya had vowed long ago to never look back.

  The men that followed were all dressed in tuxedos, all handsome as sin, taller and broader than most of the other men in the room. Priya’s gaze followed them as they moved to a table near the far left wall of the room. She wasn’t sure why, but when she moved to find a seat she made sure it was at a table in close proximity to this one. And as she stared—blatantly because there wasn’t a modest bone in her body—one of the men looked up and locked gazes with her. For a minute she was startled—his eyes were a dusky tone of gray—but then she kept right on staring, feeling as if she were falling into that swirl of muted color, falling so slowly but so completely she didn’t have a moment to catch her breath.

  About the Author

  A.C. Arthur was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland, where she currently lives with her husband and three children. An active imagination and a love for reading encouraged her to begin writing in high school and she hasn’t stopped since. Her debut novel, Object of His Desire, was written when a picture of an Italian villa sparked the idea of an African-American/Italian hero. Determined to bring a new edge to romance, she continues to develop intriguing plots, sensual love scenes, racy characters, and fresh dialogue—thus keeping the readers on their toes! Visit her at: www.acarthur.net.

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